The Generals of October

by John T. Cullen

  “Yes?”

  Shoob’s big yellow teeth looked cadaverous. “Sir, he wrote a memo to his boss before he died, and I found it.”

  “His boss?”

  “The President.”

  “And you found it.” David stared at Shoob and felt like asking if he’d had his head examined recently. “Oh really?”

  “Colonel Bentyne said the same thing. I’ve got 25 years of excellent service, and I’m risking my good name sitting here, Captain.”

  David softened. “I’ll hear you out.”

  “Thank you. It’s all I ask. Then my duty will be done and I can go back to my obscure safe little life.” Shoob faltered. “Can I smoke?”

  “Sure.” David had him move by an open window, and a fan took the acrid blue-gray smoke outside. Shoob trembled as he spoke, and the cigarette shook in his mouth. David had his first tremor of uncertainty. Either this man was a good actor, or he was really scared. “I was chasing an international hacker, and I cornered him. I’m a pro. I don’t use an icon or a logo. I try to stay invisible, especially when I’m tailing someone like that. It’s just like a city inside the net, only it might be cartoon-like in one area, or Picasso somewhere else; maybe the sponsor likes Breughel or Goya or Tissot; whatever it is, you move through dream worlds like that.”

  “Sounds enjoyable.”

  “I used to think so, but it’s a job now.” He grinned with those spade-shaped caramel-colored teeth and his voice rasped on. “They even got a Pigalle inside, Sir, you know, Pig Alley? These ladies wag a leg at you from a doorway, try to lure you inside to show you more, and it’s amazing how many people get suckered. They roll you, literally--it’s a hundred bucks a minute in one of those--” His grin faded as he remembered what the conversation was about and why his job was no longer fun. The cigarette started waving up and down again. “I chased the sombitch and he went underground on me, but I stayed on his tail.”

  “--And he led you--where--?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Sir.”

  David dropped the pencil. “Great.”

  “The strategy was to keep him in the net long enough for the cops in Holland to arrest him. He was in there, and I guess he got greedy looking through all those files. All that personal stuff about people’s lives. To a real hacker, the ultimate thrill--to wipe out a murder rap on a prison conviction, or to eliminate an old lady’s pension--hackers are evil little losers who can’t make it in real life, and this is their way of getting even. So there we were. We were in an emergency backup area of the Washington Metro Grid. I got a glimpse of some files, and it was the date on one that got me. December 14, almost two years ago. Brought me to a screeching stop. Almost forgot Salty for a second, but the cops in Amsterdam were beating his door down by then and I wasn’t needed. I made one of those field decisions just then. I knew I could cover; I’d just say I was looking for Salty inside this place. I started reading and here I am.”

  David held up the pencil. “The Vice President was murdered by private militia types.”

  “That’s what I thought until this.”

  “You make it sound like he had something to hide.”

  Shoob took a folded sheet of paper from his inner coat pocket. “The Vice President dictated this. He must have e-mailed it to himself, but there was a transmission outage of some kind, and the local net automatically made a backup copy as the net went down. Nobody knew this, and the copy has sat there for 9 months, waiting to be overwritten by the next blackout or browndown. I made a hard copy.” He pushed the paper across the table. “Please read that.”

  David read the document, looking for the giveaway that would tell him this was some sort of joke. It looked authentic; had a transmission slug with Cardoza’s name from somewhere in Washington State--wasn’t that where the Vice President had been killed?--and the date seemed right. David skimmed through the text. Supposedly, Cardoza was going to leave for Washington D.C. that night to see President Cliff Bradley about an emergency order to stop CON2. There was a plot, with ringleaders, a list of names of men who must be watched--

  David looked at the back of the paper. “Is that it?”

  “Isn’t that enough, Captain?”

  David’s heart beat harder and his skin crawled a little. “He mentions a list of names. Where is it?”

  “I have it. Not here though.”

  “We’d have to get our hands on that list.” David hesitated. “Shoob, do your fellow system jockeys ever play tricks on you?”

  Shoob shook his head. “I thought about that. No, it would end up meaning jail time. We don’t work with anyone that stupid.”

  “This isn’t really proof of anything. I need the list of names. I need everything you’ve got, Shoob, and A.S.A.P.”

  “I know that, Sir. I've been looking over my shoulder ever since I found that, and I guess from now on you will too.”

  “I’m not the paranoid type.” Something tingled at his spine. There had been a lot of hysterical press about CON2, about the rewriting of the Constitution. David personally felt the Constitution should be left alone. Could there really be people--influential people--who thought they could do better than those guys back in 1787? “Naw,” he said, “this has to be a joke.”

  “Wait until you’ve had time to think about this, Sir. Here is a man, the Vice President of the United States, involved with a bunch of military, business, elected, and religious leaders--a whole lot of power there--and one day he wakes up and realizes he’s square in the middle of a conspiracy to help us more than we feel we need to be helped. They think they have a patent on morality and values, and they’re going to make us eat their brand of baloney. I figured from the moment I touched that file, I have my neck out about one mile.” He stabbed a finger in David’s direction, and his voice took on a low, shaking enraged frustration. “I have a wife and kids, I’m working on my Ph.D. in Computer Science, and I’m about to retire. I’ve spent a lifetime setting up my ducks, and here I am caught up in this chicken shit. You think I made this all up?”

  David stared at him. “I wish you had.” He swallowed hard.

  “So do I. Now you do your part, Sir. You wanted to hear my story--” Shoob calmed a bit and toyed with his cup. “I was afraid to bring the list, in case--”

  “--Someone stopped you on the way?”

  “Frankly, yes. I have an idea, though. Will you meet me this evening, say at nine? At the Naval Observatory? I’ll take you inside, give you the tour, give you the list, and say goodbye to this whole thing. Let you handle it.”

  “Deal.”

  Chapter 8

  Tory Breen, 28, wearing a sparklingly perfect and creased dark-green Class A uniform, drove her moss-colored Jaguar to the Pentagon. She’d been invited to meet a certain special general. Her black regulation purse and a pair of white gloves lay on the passenger seat. She wore a 9 mm. automatic in a polished holster, with a crisp white lanyard running up under her right epaulet which bore her unit insignium and a lone silver first lieutenant’s bar. She wore her trousers bloused into black polished combat boots. Her brass gleamed, including crossed muzzle-loader pistol MP motifs on each lapel. She’d had her hair done and spent hours preparing for this meeting.

  Driving on this radiant Autumn day, she decided her grandmother must have had a hand in this, for why else would the general’s office contact her? Tory hadn’t really thought about asking to arrange a meeting--it embarrassed her that she might seem like a junior officer unfairly currying favor. Loosen up, she told herself, anyone else would at least contact the man.

  She parked and then walked, miles it seemed, through parking lots and long corridors in the aging building, until she found his office. She stopped in a ladies’ room, nervously straightened her lapels, and looked herself up and down for the nth time. Then she found her way down the carpeted, hushed corridor in a tomb-like section of the Pentagon’s E-ring. Here, retired reserve generals recalled for temporary duty had especially large offices.

  She knocked hes
itantly but firmly with a white-gloved fist on the office door of General Rocky Devereaux, U.S. Army (Retired).

  The odor of old cigar smoke permeated the area, one of the few where smoking privileges had not been entirely extinguished. From the silence, she thought there might not be a soul alive in there. On the door was a wooden sign with carved letters, “Rocky Devereaux, U.S. Army” and, beside that, a chipped, faded wooden rooster. The rooster had a cigar in his mouth, cocked up at a defiant angle like his raised boxing gloves; on his past-century steel pot helmet were four stars. She held her ear to the door and knocked again, louder. A voice slashed through the air like a knife ripping paper: “I said come in, for chrissake! Is everyone deaf in this goddam place?”

  She turned the handle and stepped inside. In this ancient room that dated back to World War II stood a slim white-haired man surrounded by an atoll of cigar smoke. He wore simple fatigues and a black leather belt with a holstered .38 caliber revolver. He stood framed by a window with a crack in the glass, and turned as she entered. His back was straight, and he had his hands folded behind him. His white hair had stubborn peaks in it, and his eyes an impatient fire. He looked ready to bark at her, and she stiffened in anticipation, but when he saw her his eyes softened and his mouth opened helplessly. “My God,” he whispered, so she barely heard him.

  She came to attention and saluted. “Lieutenant Victoria Breen reporting, Sir.”

  “My God,” he repeated. He returned her salute with a careless flick of the hand and stepped closer as if meeting a ghost. He whispered: “You look like him.”

  “I hope not, Sir.” She knew from photographs she had something of Granddad that gave her soft face firm edges. She relaxed her stance. He took the cigar from the corner of his mouth, and stared at her. Then he laughed. “Of course not, you look a lot prettier. Sense of humor, too. Welcome aboard, Breen.” He stuck out his hand. “Last time I saw you, you were about this tall.” As they shook hands, he held his other hand by his knee.

  “Thank you, Sir. I was five. Thanks for receiving me today.”

  He offered coffee, and she accepted. “My pleasure. Your granddad was a great soldier, Lieutenant Breen, what’s your--?” He poured.

  “Tory, Sir.”

  “Your grandma wrote to me.”

  “So I heard, Sir. I appreciate your interest, and it’s nice to meet you again.” Actually, she’d been mortified at her grandmother’s meddling.

  “I admired your grandfather, and he was one of the best friends I ever had. Not to mention he saved my life under fire. When Eleanor called me, said you were having second thoughts and wanted to move on to civilian life.”

  Maybe he knows, she thought. She turned beet red. Her messy divorce had been the talk of Fort Sill, causing her unfaithful husband to be cashiered out of the Reserves, and she'd had to request a transfer and a fresh start to escape wagging tongues. She'd almost resigned. “I was going through some soul searching, Sir. Nasty divorce. That was a year or two ago. I've cleared my head since. I'm sticking with it.”

  “Every young officer goes through gyrations.” He shrugged, as if there were nothing to it, and she felt a bit more relieved. “Your grandma still has a lot of contacts along Flag Row. She is very wise, and she's concerned. I said of course I’d look out for you. When I saw all those awards and all that effort in your file, I thought he'd be so proud of you. God knows, I am.” He held his coffee cup in one hand, the cigar in the other, and sat against the morning light in the window. He had a bit of paunch, she saw, and white hair stuck out of the V of his fatigue lapels. Curtain folds in his neck quivered as he spoke in quick, energetic bursts; a few veins showed on his cheekbones; the bridge of his nose had a scar, and the jutting jaw spoke of pride and toughness. A tear twinkled in each of his cloudy-gray eyes. “Victor Breen used to go into Saigon every second weekend and bring me back a box of good Virginia cigars. Should have killed me by now. By rights he’d be sitting here instead of me. Guess you were named after him, huh?”

  “Yessir.”

  “He didn't see us lose that one, and then go through the next couple of wars. Maybe he's lucky. “ He set the cup down and turned away to wipe his eyes. They talked some more, and as he reminisced, he seemed to look directly into the past, as if it were a diorama. Sometimes he smiled at how it had been. “I can still picture me as I got off the plane at Ton Son Nhut, a green butterbar. A couple of weeks later, on some deserted stretch near Dak To, your granddad walked into a burning plane and pulled guys out. You know what? He was the kind of man that people just naturally want to follow.” He swept his cigar in an arc. “Follow! He had charisma. Couple of fellas walked right in there behind him and pulled more guys out. All the while he kept firing at VC that kept popping up all around in the elephant grass. Took some bullets, but he saved a bunch of lives. A year later--he died at An Khe.” For a moment they were both silent as they shared that grief. She thought he was going to choke up again, but he didn’t. She would save her tears for later. Granddad had been hit in the head by a stray bullet during a firefight on some brown river where the sun kept twinkling and the water lilies kept rocking and the bugs just kept walking on the water that was briefly stained with a swirl of red. It was Tory’s turn to feel a deep welling up, but she postponed it. He looked at her. “You a Pointer?”

  “Nossir. Iowa State, Sir. Top 10% of my ROTC class.”

  “That's great. Lots of fine officers come out of ROTC.” He considered. “The first twenty years or so, you do real work. After that it’s politics. But you might as well start meeting people, as long as you're here in D.C. I'll think about who I can introduce you to.”

  “Yessir. Thank you, Sir.”

  “Another thing. Keep your head down, hear? It’s gonna get awful nasty over there in that convention center before they’re done screwing up our Constitution.” He rummaged for his camouflage cap. He muttered: “Victor Breen, my God! He’ll throw lightning bolts after me if I don’t treat you like my own granddaughter. You come see me on and off, okay? I’ll be camped in Rock Creek Park with the Composite. The wife and I enjoyed some dandy Bull Moose conventions at the Atlantic. I hope we get this crap done so I can get back to my real estate and my fishing hole.”

  Rather than walk through the huge building, General Devereaux chose to take a long, brisk walk in the open to reach the mess hall. His chief of staff and assistants trailed, double column, in regulation order. Tory walked several persons behind with a Reserve command sergeant major who looked gentle enough to be a tailor or piano tuner. The open air between buildings was bracing. Gray, sweltering summer had changed to cool, bright autumn. Leaves had turned from green to wine red and siena and banana yellow. Evenings were clear-skied and had snap--sweater weather, football time, Tory thought.

  The flag officers’ mess, located on the second floor of the A-ring, was a cavernous hall partitioned with oak paneling into separate dining areas. General Devereaux met three other retired reserve generals. He introduced her to his friends in turn: “Mark Nash, 699th Maine, drives tanks around. Ernie Thompson, 919th Virginia, artillery. And Conrad MacIntosh, 888th Colorado, transportation, trucks.” They were all very nice and shook her hand. Tory was so overwhelmed she hardly tasted her lunch. Afterward, free of generals and decorum, filled with memories of her grandfather, she stopped by a big old tree, leaned against its shedding white side, and wept.

  Chapter 9

  After the strange, haunting, maybe crazy interview with Ibrahim Shoob, David prepared to leave Walter Reed Army Medical Center to interview Mary Corcoran. First, though, he commed Tory on his lapel phone-button to ask about Shoob. A clerk answered: “No, Sir. I’m sorry, Lieutenant Breen isn’t here this morning.”

  “Are you expecting her back?” David glanced at the clock. It was noon.

  “Hmm... She’s at the Pentagon--oh, here she comes now.” The clerk took a moment to transfer the call from her com button to Tory’s. “Hello?” Tory said.

  “I hear you were at the Pentagon,”
David said. “About our man Shoob and his flying saucer story?”

  She laughed. “No, it was a personal matter. You think Ib is full of beans?”

  “He’s full of something, and I only hope it’s not really what he says.”

  “I know,” she said darkly.

  “Hell of a greeting card to send me. Why me?”

  “You said people bring you problems. Okay, there’s a problem.” She paused. “All right, so I also wondered if we could have lunch sometime.”

  “I was trying to figure out a way to ask you that,” he said.

  “See, so that’s solved. Can you help Ib?”

  “I don’t know. Is he--I mean, he’s not nuts or anything? Drink? Take drugs?”

  “He’s as straight as arrows get, Captain.”

  “Say, if we’re going to lunch, can you just call me Dave and I’ll call you Tory?”

  “Hmmm. I’ll call you David. You’re more of a David than a Dave.”

  “Though you’re more of a Tory than a Victoria.”

  “Yes, please call me Tory. Sort of breaks the ice a little better.”

  “Tomorrow? Noon?”

  With her byyye! echoing in his ears, David left for Walter Reed carrying his briefcase. Rather than drive through the insane traffic, he took a shuttle bus on Jankowsky’s advice. He wore his regulation raincoat over his fatigues, for the crisp autumn sky was clouding up and the first few droplets feathered the windshield of the shuttle van. The 9 mm. NATO standard rode high and awkwardly inside the coat.

  It was lunch time, and he was hungry. He checked his watch. He had time before his scheduled interview, so he found his way to the cafeteria. He entered a clamor of people and dinnerware. The huge room was filled with the aromas of beef, bread, and coffee. David joined a long line and shuffled along inches at a time, holding his tray.

  He’d noticed a cloverleaf of helicopter pads near the building. A group of flight-suited pilots and nurses sat at a table in the bustling cafeteria. He noticed a hand waving, then a certain ash-blond head--Maxie! He waved back, and she lit up with a grin of delight and waved again.